Tuesday, October 24, 2006
the shape of experience
Morning light slants down the brick wall of Korean Methodist Church. I'm drinking black tea with milk and knitting, sitting cross-legged on the futon. The refrigerator's humming loudly in the kitchen, condensation fogs the windows. A full vase of roses rests on the coffee table, roses Nebojsa brought to me after working at a wedding in Scarsdale on Sunday. It's well time to be off to the seminary, but I keep starting another row of soft pink and orange wool on the scarf I'm making.
Rachel made a comment a few days ago--after reading Julia's post about regaining contact with the gravity of the broader world after Esme's birth--about how the experiences of death and of new life seem comfortingly similar. And it struck me that my experiences of loss and gain have so entwined themselves together as to create a kind of whole, mirroring each other. I think of the chiasm, the way the words take shape in reflection--pain against pain, joy against joy. And I think of how easy it is to miss the center, the quiet place inbetween the action, that is point after all. Like this quiet morning in Crestwood, tea with pink wool, and roses opening.